'I know it's a nice little lot, and I can't afford to lose it; you know I can't afford to lose it. But there's something I can afford to lose still less, and that--that's my character.' 'Your character! Why, if you only could manage to get rid of your character--I don't believe you yourself realise what an awful one it is--it'd be the best stroke of business you've done for many a day, my dear Cox!' Mr Burton advanced, as if to tap his friend, in an affable manner, on the shoulder. This brought him within a few feet of where Miss Casata was standing. Laying his left hand on Mr Cox's shoulder, with his right he snatched away that gentleman's walking-stick, swung round and struck Miss Casata's outstretched wrist with such violence that the revolver was driven from her grasp and sent flying across the room. She gave a cry of pain. Her arm fell limp at her side. The blow had been delivered with so much force that it was quite possible her wrist was broken. 'You devil!' 'You wild cat!' returned the gentleman. 'Now, Flyman, on to her!' The Flyman obeyed. The two gentlemen attacked the lady. Although she fought gamely, especially considering her injured wrist, she was no match for the pair. They got her down upon the floor, still struggling for all that she was worth. 'Now, Flyman, where's that stuff of yours?' 'I'm getting it. She's a oner. She's bit me to the bone.' With difficulty--he only had one hand disengaged--he evolved a tin canister from his jacket pocket. 'Bite her to the bone! Let her have the lot!' From the canister the Flyman managed to take a cloth--a cloth which was soaked with some peculiar-smelling fluid. This he jammed against the lady's face, even cramming it between her lips. She writhed and twisted, then lay still. As the Flyman got up, he examined the hand which she had marked with her teeth. 'She takes a bit of doing. I shouldn't like to have to tackle her single-handed.' Mr Burton smiled. His clothes were a little rumpled. As he rose he arranged his tie. 'Nice wife she'd make! What do you think?' Mr Cox had occupied his time in picking up the revolver of which the lady had been relieved. He seemed genuinely concerned. 'You know, Burton, I tell you again I didn't come here for this sort of thing. I wouldn't have had this happen not--not for a good deal. I shouldn't be surprised if we get into trouble for this.' 'My dear Cox, we should have got into trouble anyhow. We may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. I'm going for the gloves.' 'Hung! Don't talk about hanging. You make a cold shiver go down my back. You haven't--killed her?' 'Killed her? You innocent! She's the sort who take a deal of killing. My good chap, when she comes to, she'll curse a little and go on generally; but she'll forgive me in the end. I know her; she's a dear!' While the three men stood looking down at the unconscious woman, there came a knocking at the outer door. CHAPTER XV